


between the fall and the impact

by tamsinb



Series: take a chance on me (betsy trombone) [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: (important to me), Agender Betsy Trombone, Alcohol, Alternate Angst, Angst, Character Study, Depictions of Bullying, Depictions of wounds, Drug Use, Knives, Other, Seasons 5-6, we love a deeply ambiguous relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamsinb/pseuds/tamsinb
Summary: The perpetual rain misting down on Seattle reminded Betsy of the dew on the grass they’d landed on the morning they first entered this plane of reality.In which the Alternate Betsy Trombone falls into our world, and meets someone who understands what it's like to fall.
Relationships: Mike Townsend & Betsy Trombone, Mike Townsend/Betsy Trombone
Series: take a chance on me (betsy trombone) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092785
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	between the fall and the impact

* * *

_“the good don't die young_

_they just haven't had time_

_to fuck up the same_

_as the rest of us yet…”_

_"song for a netflix account”, pat the bunny_

* * *

The perpetual rain misting down on Seattle reminded Betsy of the dew on the grass they’d landed on the morning they first entered this plane of reality. Whatever doorway their old team had seen fit to dispose of them through had been a fair bit above the ground and they’d fallen hard on their arm. Hadn’t been able to pitch for a while. Some of the team found them a few hours later, just after dawn broke, while they were looking for the previous Trombone. As they were carted off the field Betsy vaguely noted the _Cakes_ under the _Philly_ on their uniform had been replaced with a _Pies_ sometime they weren’t looking.

The name on the roster was Betsy Trombone. And their ID said Betsy Trombone. So what was the big deal if they stuck around, took over the slot in the rotation? Just as long as none of you fuck with me we’ll be fine. When they’d put it like that, no one had been able to argue against. It helped that they were waving their switchblade wildly as they spoke. _Oh, looks like that actually works on these dumbasses. Cool._

Which made them think about the Betsy they’d replaced. Not that they’d ever ask any of these losers what the other one was like, seemed like a pain in the ass, plus whoever they asked might think they cared which they _didn’t._ So they put it together piecemeal.

The other Betsy was probably a good bit taller, judging by how high everything was hung up in the locker. When no one was looking they’d found a stepstool to move everything around.

The other Betsy was popular, too, judging by the way their phone buzzed constantly for the first couple of weeks they were back. Numbers they didn’t recognize got ghosted one after another, and any that didn’t take the hint got a string of nasty texts to show for it.

The other Betsy’d still had a gender. But a few near-miss stabs from their switchblade had cleared up _that_ misunderstanding fairly quickly.

And perhaps most infuriatingly of all, the other Betsy had actually played the trombone. The evidence of this? The trombone Betsy had found when shown to their new/old room. They’d smashed it to a crumpled mess the first chance they got.

Rhys was gone in this world too. The circumstances and the date were different, but the facts were the same. Dead on their arrival. From what they could tell, this world's Rhys seemed a more serious sort than theirs, composed and even a bit upstanding. They thought back to their own brass-tinged brother, smiles and goofs and nothing serious. Maybe they would’ve even gotten along with this one. Too late to say for sure, now.

Sometimes at night Betsy would sneak out into the stadium grounds to stare up at the point in air they’d fallen out of. This was the only time they’d allow themself to ponder the fate of the Betsy they’d supplanted. They couldn’t quite tell where exactly the point they’d entered through was but they found a spot they figured was close enough, and as they stared for a while into the stars of the night sky they felt distance between themself and the other Betsy that far outstripped whatever gap there is between universes.

_Hope you enjoy it over there you fucking loser._

***

They’d pitched the first game of the season, throwing it straight over the plate with the entirety of their strength, every time either a hit or a strikeout. Anything in between was just an annoyance. And yet, despite this, they’d let the game slip into extra innings. Sure they’d won, but Betsy was still in nowhere near the mood to go to the post-game interviews and so they’d fended off their teammates and gone to light a cigarette off somewhere outside the stadium.

Someone had appeared next to them before they were able to, standing over them wearing a dumb hat and nerd glasses. Betsy hit them with a glower that didn’t dissuade them and they pulled out a notebook and started talking about some bullshit anyway.

The thing about your stats, they'd said, and even though you only have the one star it's really- and then they'd rattled off a bunch of weird sounding words and said some nerd-ass numbers, and hadn't left until Betsy put their hand into the inside pocket of the leather jacket they’d slipped on before leaving, and the person didn't need to run the stats to know what that meant.

And as they left the stadium Betsy kinda wished they'd told him hey, you know, maybe 'you're not as bad as everyone thought you’d be' isn't quite the fucking compliment you think it is? Especially when they already have to deal with the fact that whenever someone starts to speak to them their eyes go to a spot about six inches above their eyes as if they were expecting them to be a different height, especially when everyone kept setting you up for inside jokes you didn't know the punchlines for. Especially when your section of the Pies’ baking facilities was crammed with gaudy decorations, lined with piping bags and sweet ingredients Betsy knew they’d never use.

The next game Betsy pitched, they tried to feel the numbers under their fingers as the ball left their hand. They just felt the same stitching as always. They got shamed by the Crabs and it didn’t much bother them.

***

“Hey Betsy, come on! You’re holding up the game.”

“You’re gonna piss off the ump, just throw it already!”

Betsy was staring up into the Seattle rain. They blinked it out of their eyes and focused down the batter, snapping themself out of their reverie. They were down, by a lot, and if the Pies’ hitting didn’t close the gap, this would be the last inning they pitched. They sighed and threw for a groundout and the inning was over.

They hung around for a little bit to laugh when their team failed yet again to get anything going against a pitcher as notoriously garbage as Mike Townsend. _Y’all are making me look bad out there,_ they smirked to themself, _letting some poseur like that put up better numbers than me? Thanks a lot…_

Not that Betsy’d ever seen him pitch before, and it’s not like he’d turned out to be _that_ bad, just. Not good. Really not good. Betsy knew what people said, a little bit, they’d heard the song. Or at least, the start of it, right until the chorus came in and they’d grown so angry they’d yelled for it to be turned off and when that didn’t happen fast enough they’d snapped out their switchblade and cut straight through the wires on the speakers and kicked them clear across the room.

They hadn’t been mad for any particular reason. It was just a shitty fucking song.

Betsy left before the inning was over.

* * *

“Aw sick,” they said, pulling out a glass bowl with a cloth draped over it. Just about doubled in size. Last two games had gone on too long and the dough had risen too high to use, but this time it came out just about right. Betsy grabbed a bowl scraper from a shelf and got to work.

The Garages’ kitchen left quite a bit to be desired, but then again basically anywhere would, compared to the Pies’. Enough players had some kind of food-related pregame rituals that most every stadium had a kitchen of some variety, but it seemed like only the teams with a food aspect actually took it seriously. Betsy had to pick and choose to find the trays and ovens that were in the least disrepair, but they managed to get enough together and fashion some half-decent looking loaves to pop in the oven which had just finished preheating.

The sound of the oven door closing almost masked the sound of the kitchen door opening. Betsy whipped around in surprise, switchblade drawn in one fluid motion, pointing directly at Mike Townsend.

"Haha hey, woah! Easy there..." he said, putting his hands up.

"Fuck do you want, Townsend."

"Oh, you uh, know who I am?"

"Don't let it go to your head," said Betsy, rolling their eyes.

"Not likely. Can I uh, is it safe to come in? I left a pie to cool, so…"

Betsy followed his gaze to a delicious-looking pie sitting under a slightly cracked window.

"Whatever. Long as you don't get in my way."

"Cool, thanks!" He stepped in awkwardly, unwilling to take up the space his body forced him too. Slumped over badly and taking small, shuffling steps. It instinctively pissed Betsy off and they channeled that energy into fiddling with their closed blade, running their thumb around the metal edges of the handle. Not much else to do until the baking finished.

Mike was glancing furtively at them while trying not to seem like he was doing it and Betsy did their best to give off the impression that they didn’t notice but that even if they _did_ they wouldn’t give a single solitary shit.

At long last: “So, uh. Betsy.”

“Cool. Sick. Don’t have to introduce myself. Love it.” As much bite in their voice as they could muster.

“Haha, I just pitched a whole game against you. Also, uh, I remember seeing you in the list of alternates.”

“Aw dunk another person here to bitch me out for getting rid of everyone’s favorite Betsy. God, I don’t know how she could stand to put up with y’all.”

“Um. No? I uh, didn’t really know her. At all, really. Her vibes always seemed off to me.”

“Oh.”

“You seem cool though.”

Betsy blinked. “You wanna die?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

“Then shut it, don’t fuckin call me cool. I mean. I am cool, but. But I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“Right. My bad.” He smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good, you better.”

No response to that, he busied himself checking the filling to see if it’d set properly. Betsy checked their timer. Too long left to go. They hopped up onto the counter, swinging their legs over the edge and tapping the end of their knife against the countertop.

“What are you doing back in here, anyway?” he asked, when he was satisfied his pie had turned out how he wanted. “Supposed to be for _pre_ game rituals.”

“Well I’m not about to get here fuckin two hours before the game to wait for my dough to rise. And I’m definitely not about to leave without my bread if I can help it. Besides what else am I gonna do after the game?”

“Uh, spend it with your team? I’m sure they’re doing something…”

Betsy made a noise somewhere halfway between a spit and a scoff.

“Right. Got it.”

“If I’m lucky they left already.”

“I think they did? Saw them get in the bus after the game.”

“Good. That means I’m lucky.”

“Uh huh.”

“I should play the fuckin lottery right now I’d win. Whatever the big prize is.”

“Jackpot?”

“Bingo.”

“Sure, that too. Listen, you uh. Wanna share this pie with me?”

“...Depends on what flavor.”

“Apple.”

Betsy bit the inside of their lip. “Yeah okay but make it a fuckin big one.”

Mike smiled again and this time, seeing it head on, Betsy noticed it didn’t look so much like an expression of joy so much as an ask for permission. For what, they couldn’t quite say.

He pulled out a few mismatched plates and searched for cutlery but couldn’t find any clean ones so he had to settle for quickly wiping off a few that were in the sink. After a moment Betsy was presented with a plate carrying a slice of a size it was never meant to. They plunked it down on their lap. Mike hopped up on the counter next to them and they glared as their hand reflexively went to where their knife sat beside them. But they thought better of it. They’d finish the pie first, at least.

“This place is a shithole,” they said, cutting off their first bite.

“This universe?”

Betsy narrowed their eyes at him. “This kitchen, dumbass.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry, I’m really the only one who uses it around here.” Betsy popped a bite into their mouth.

“Damn hey uh actually? If you make pie like this you don’t hafta apologize for anythin ever again.”

“Oh, you like it?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Not too sweet, either.”

“I know, right? Everybody always makes it so sweet, it’s not about sugar flavor it’s about apple flavor.”

“It’s about cinnamon flavor.”

“Haha yeah okay. Apple cinnamon flavor.”

“It’s about fuckin. _Nutmeg_ flavor.”

“Betsy you’re just naming everything in an apple pie.”

Betsy grinned. “It’s about fuckin, pie flavor.”

That got a chuckle out of Mike. “Well. Glad you like it.”

“Fuck yeah I’ll fuck up an apple pie anyway. That’s my favorite shit.”

“Do you want like. A coffee? I can get you some.”

“Hot?”

“That’s what the machine makes, yeah.”

“No thanks. Burns my tongue.”

“Sure.”

“You can uh. You can still get it for yourself though.”

“Nah, no worries.”

Betsy kept swinging their legs. Mike’s eyes were cast down at his plate, or maybe a little above it.

“So what about you, like. You actually won the game, shouldn’t you be, like, with your team? Celebrating, or something?”

“Maybe I could share my pie with them?” smirked Mike.

“Or something.”

“I’m sure they’ll drag me out of here sooner or later. When I win they like to make me do karaoke.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Haha, yeah.”

Something in his voice made Betsy remember the reason they’d gotten a switchblade in the first place. Not that it’d really ever helped. “Oh…”

Betsy felt their face settle into something stern and their head twirled a bit and they tried to form their lips around a sentence that started like _hey listen-_ but the moment was snapped by the chirp of their oven alarm.

“Oh shit! Uh.” And they hopped off the counter just in time to rescue their bread, sliding it onto a tray to cool.

“Wow, looks great.”

“Thanks, it’s uh. Brioche.”

“You always bake, or?”

Betsy shook their head. “It was on my stats sheet when I got here, figured I’d give it a try. Pretty fun actually. Especially the kneading.”

“Oh I hate that part, I always have a machine do it.”

“You’re missing out,” laughed Betsy.

“Mind if I?”

“Sure? It’s still pretty hot so you should let it cool, but-”

And Mike was already ripping off the end of a loaf, admiring the tear of the crum and the way the light through the kitchen’s single window made the vapor coming out of the moist loaf into a small dazzling display. Mike took a bite and Betsy couldn’t help but wince.

“Holy shit!!” he said with his mouth full. “Betsy, that’s fucking good!”

Betsy smiled and then caught themself and did their best to turn it from pleased to haughty. “Of course it is, dumbass, everything I make is great. I’m basically the best fucking breadmaker this side of the universe.”

“Hey, I’ll believe that.”

“You uh, is there any jam around here? It’s usually good with some kind of…”

“You can check the fridge but it’s pretty empty usually.”

Betsy did, and it was. “Aww, that sucks. All I got for you is plain-ass bread. It’s like I owe you something.”

“Haha, don’t worry about it. It’s plenty sweet on its own.”

And Betsy turned back to see Mike gingerly holding an entire too-hot loaf in both of his hands, taking enthusiastic bites off the end, and they decided maybe he was right. It was plenty sweet.

* * *

Every team had five pitchers and went through them one per game, meaning that once someone’s schedule lined up with yours, you were stuck with them. Which is why, as Season 5 entered its back stretch and the Pies traveled back to Seattle, when Betsy saw that they were set to pitch the second game of the series they didn’t have to look to know who would be facing off against them.

Learning from their past mistake they’d carried their own sack of bread flour with them so they could actually make a halfway sturdy loaf this time and not some half-roll bullshit. They’d figured any decent kitchen would have more than one type of flour but Betsy kept finding new ways to be disappointed.

Bread flour dough took a lot longer to knead if you really wanted to see the gluten formation it deserved. Which was the only reason Betsy was at the kitchen earlier than their pregame ritual usually required. The only possible reason, really, what other reason could they possibly have for-

“Oh, Betsy.” Mike Townsend gingerly tapped the door open with his foot, a carton of blueberries in one hand and a jug of buttermilk in the other. He didn’t kick hard enough and the door half-closed on him. “Haha, fuck. Uh, hey, could you uh-?”

“My hands are kind covered in dough, dumbass. Figure it out yourself.”

“Good to see you too,” he smiled, and Betsy hoped their glare made it clear enough that if they didn’t care so much about getting dough stuck to its handle then their switchblade would be out and poised at this very second.

***

“That shit smells nasty.”

“It’s just buttermilk.”

Betsy’s dough was finished and proofing and they were laying on a counter, head dangling over the edge to watch Mike adding his wet ingredients. There was technically no reason they should still be there, but Mike’s company very narrowly cleared the low bar of ‘better than the Pies’ dugout’, so there they remained.

“What do you need that for anyway, huh? Normal ass milk not good enough for your pretentious ass?”

“Nah it’s for scones, you gotta use buttermilk. You’re telling me you’ve never made scones or like, biscuits before?”

“Uh, no, my ritual says _bread_ making. Not pastries.”

“Haha, I’m pretty sure scones are bread.”

“I will never in a million eternities concede this point to you.”

“About what I figured.” Mike started dragging a wooden spoon through the mixture, the first time nearly knocking the bowl out of his hands, fumbling it for a bit.

“Shit, you good?”

“Oh yeah no worries, happens all the time. I’m pretty clumsy. Funny, really.”

“Funny how?”

“Haha,” said Mike, going back to stirring, more insistently this time, “I guess I don’t really know either.”

“Well I don’t think it’s funny and my comedy skills are like, a lightyear ahead of anyone else in this league, so you can trust me on this shit.”

“Guess I will.”

“Good. You fuckin better.”

***

Betsy turned up their nose at the first scone Mike offered them but they took a bite and had to admit it was pretty great. They washed it down with the cold brew that Mike had casually offered them without explanation.

They figured they should thank him for it. They tried to, but what came out was, in a tiny voice: “Next time. Uh. No ice in it? Dilutes it, plus I mean it’s already cold so…”

“Oh, my bad, I’ll remember.”

“I mean, you don’t gotta, it’s. Not that important. Just like, the whole point of cold brew is it’s got a ton of caffeine so-”

“Betsy. I don’t think you need any more caffeine.”

“It’s how I pitch so good though.”

“But like. With your uh, body size and everything-”

Betsy casually flicked their blade out, cutting him off with the noise. They smiled sweetly. “What was that, Michael?”

“Haha, look at that! We should get going or we’re gonna miss the game…”

“That’s what I thought you said.”

* * *

“All right, Bets, keep it movin now! Let’s get y’all out of the bus.”

“Don’t fucking call me that…” mumbled Betsy, slouching their way out from the very back of the Pies’ bus and hopping down in front of the waiting Jessica Telephone. They rolled their eyes and pulled their leather jacket further around their uniform.

“Aww, c’mon now!” said Jessica, with her usual slight drawl. “Would it kill ya to show a little team spirit?”

“Bet it would kill somebody…” they mumbled.

“Come again?” asked Jess.

“Ugh. Nothing. Whatever.”

“Just give it a little hustle, kay?” Jessica reached her arm down to muss Betsy’s hair before they could respond. With a smirk, she left to join the rest of the team in the dugout. Betsy bit down whatever response came to their head and blew it out as a slow exhale. With no breath in them they could feel their excited pulse start to slow.

Betsy wasn’t pitching that game which meant they would probably do what they always did when they weren’t pitching for a series: hang out outside the stadium and smoke. Nobody really stopped them. Their care extended as far as getting them to the stadium and getting them off the bus so they could park it. Betsy preferred it, honestly. If they weren’t pitching, there was no one watching to make sure they were warmed up in the bullpen or just generally around for press and the like, which meant they were free to bind as tight as they wanted and wear whatever they wanted over their uniform. Jessica had long since stopped chewing them out for “forgetting” their hat.

They slouched backward against the wall and reached inside their jacket to pull out the pack of cigarettes, watching the team file into the stadium out of the corner of their eye as they did. Except, not all of the team was headed inside. Some were talking to Mike Townsend. Who was over here, on the wrong side of the stadium, for some reason.

 _Well if I’m not pitching,_ thought Betsy, _then he’s not, which means he can do whatever the hell he wants. Did it have to be talking to my team, though? Oh fuck one of them looked at me, better look- tough? I guess? Ugh. What if he says something that gets them pissed at me. What if he says something that makes them think they can fuck with me? No, no it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it won’t be like last time, it’ll-_

“Hey, Betsy.”

“BWLAURGH” Betsy let out some ungodly noise as every bit of tension exploded in their body then dissipated all at once. “Jesus fuck Mike don’t sneak up on me.”

“Oh, sorry. I uh, I walked directly up to you though? I even waved.”

“Whatever. Hey, what’re you talking to my team for.”

“Just wondering where you were.”

Betsy narrowed their eyes. “What the fuck for.”

“You smoke?”

They looked down at the pack of cigarettes they were still holding too tightly in their hand. “Take a wild fucking guess, dumbass.”

“Nah, like. Not cigarettes.”

“Oh. Every once in a while.”

“Wanna ditch? I know a spot.”

Betsy tilted their head to the side and leaned it back against the wall behind them. Team all inside. No one around to see. Not that Betsy figured they’d care even if they were. They shrugged. “Why not? Lead the way.”

“Awesome.” Mike smiled and Betsy rolled their eyes yet again.

He took them around a bit and through an unmarked side door that had been propped open. Betsy hopped through and found a dim space with a thin metal stairway. Mike eased the door shut behind them.

“Hey uh. By the way, Bets.”

They turned back with one hand on the railing. “What’s up?”

“Did you, uh. Did you actually stab a guy?”

Betsy smirked. _Holy shit those fucks actually bought it._

“That’s for me to know and for you to fuck around and find out, Townsend.” They started up the stairs.

***

“It’s just like… I don’t remember voting for her to be queen of the entire league, ya know?”

“It’s true. You didn’t vote for that. Don’t think anyone did.”

“And like, noooobody asked her to be the Betsy police or whatever.”

“You sure seem pretty good at getting under her skin.”

“Heh heh… Right? I’m awesome.”

Betsy was lying on their back on the rough but comfortable surface of the roof, body thrumming, staring up at the sky like it was a whirlpool trying to draw them in. The vertigo was exhilarating. Mike was sitting with his back to the lip around the roof’s edge and if Betsy let their head loll to the side his face was there against the blue. It felt like the two of them were discovering something new up there, pioneers of near-space travel, Betsy’s hands reaching up into a sky they were sure they could touch. Maybe they were just high.

“Why are you so interested in pissing her off, anyway.”

“Hm? Oh, uh. Dunno. Pretty quick way to make everyone hate me.”

“And that’s… what you want?”

“Yeah. Course. Long as they leave me alone.”

“Well it seems like you’re doing a great job of that.”

“Dang Mike you’re just full of compliments today, what’s up? New entrant to the Betsy fanclub?”

“It’s not a compliment.”

“I dunno, whaddya want me to say? She’s annoying. Acts like she’s in charge. Hate people like that. Right? I’m right, right?”

“I have literally no opinions on Jessica Telephone.”

“Ugh!!” Betsy flung their arms out to either side, hoping one would give Mike a smack. “You’re literally NO fun.”

“Haha, that’s what people tell me.”

“I’m gonna stab you, don’t agree with me, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Kay. What would you rather me do.”

“Literally anything besides what you usually do. Which is try to placate me or whatever without actually taking a position.”

But Mike’s attention had once again wandered over in the direction of the field, craning his neck around to see behind him. 

“Hey. Earth to fuckin Michael. What’s up dude, what’re you lookin at.”

“Oh. Hm? Uh. Nothing.”

“Right.” Betsy let their head fall to the other side, nothing but an uncharacteristically clear Seattle sky, punctuated by a wisp of steam trailing from the building’s exhaust.

“It’s gonna be close, but. We could make it. We’re not out yet, anyway.”

“The playoffs?”

“Yeah.”

“Got it.” The Pies were long-since out of serious contention, the first time the team had ever missed the playoffs. Betsy took a sick satisfaction that they might’ve had a hand in it.

“Still haven’t gotten there yet. Been close, but uh. No dice, haha. Sorry, Jay.”

“Jay?”

“Oh, uh. Jaylen. Hotdogfingers. Sorry, I forget you’re not from here, do you-”

"Yeah of course I know who that is," said Betsy, pausing afterwards to confirm they actually did. Died when the book opened, right? Well, in this world anyway. In theirs the first incineration had been some loser with a lip ring that no one much cared about, before or after.

“Not really a name you can forget, huh. Did you uh-? Nah, nevermind.”

“Nah, hit me, what’s up Mike?”

“You didn’t like. Know her in your world, did you? Like, I know she wouldn’t be the same one, but…”

Betsy exhaled hard. “Wish I could say I did, bud. I didn’t really uh. Know. Anyone.”

“Right.”

They pushed themself up and crawled backward a bit to sit next to Mike, their shoulder pressed against his, sensing he could use a presence. “Were you two close?”

“Close? Hm. Maybe.”

“Don’t go fuckin weird on me, Mike. Simple question.”

“It’s not, really. Nothing with her was ever simple. But, uh. We went back a long way. Who knows how far.”

“Was she like. Sick?”

Mike smiled. “Sickest person I ever met.”

“Rad.”

“That too.”

“Nah, I meant like. Rad that she’s sick. Or sick that she’s rad. Uh. I don’t fuckin know actually.”

“Me neither.”

“Well. If she’s that rad or sick or whatever. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you moping around about it.”

“No, you’re right, she’d chew me out for this, haha. But, I dunno. Wouldn’t be the first time I couldn’t do what she wanted from me.”

And Betsy wasn’t quite sure what to say to that and their head was spinning enough that they had to close their eyes briefly and then Mike mumbled something and Betsy thought they heard the word _disappointment_ in there but they couldn’t quite be sure.

***

A week later, the Seattle Garages were formally, mathematically eliminated from the Season 5 playoffs. Betsy sent Mike a text when they heard. It didn’t get a response. Mike was radio silent for two days before resuming conversation like nothing happened, and Betsy didn’t have the heart not to play along.

* * *

Betsy was surrounded and suffocated by the noise in the venue, but it felt more like a blanket than a drowning. They were thankful they’d chosen their chunkiest boots, the extra height was a lifesaver. They just hoped they could find-

“Over here!”

Mike was waving over a small throng of people and Betsy perked up and waved back, elbowing their way over to him.

“Mike! Hey.”

“Got a table over here, come on.”

The Garages were playing at some dive on Philly’s south side, and Betsy had deliberated for days on whether to accept when Mike texted them offering tickets. Kept him waiting until the last minute, and Betsy hoped that whatever panic attack it gave Mike was at least gentler than the one they’d had over it.

Betsy grimaced as the two of them pressed their way off the floor. The aesthetic of the crowd was somewhere between normcore and grunge, and Mike tended more towards the former in jeans and a tee. Betsy felt self conscious in their too-tight black pants and ancient deathmetal bandshirt torn to shreds, along with the requisite leather jacket, but at least the fact that they looked objectively fucking awesome helped soften the blow. They hopped up into a two person high top table across from Mike, and facing him for the first time they could tell that the poor guy looked like he’d just escaped from behind enemy lines.

“So!” he said, voice hitting the raised forced casual of someone used to speaking over the noise of crowds, “How’d you like the show?”

“Oh, uh,” and somehow Betsy found she couldn’t lie, “skipped it. Actually. Just got here five minutes ago.”

“Oh! Gotcha. Gotcha.” Betsy wondered why he looked relieved. “It was. Went okay.” Someone glanced by and dropped two beers on the table. Mike nodded at them as they left. Betsy grabbed the bottle and the glass felt slightly sticky somehow but it went down well, local and hoppy.

They met Mike’s eyes by accident and found they couldn’t break them. They let Mike have the briefest grin they could manage. There wasn’t anything to say, really, and it looked like Mike had the same idea. And they sipped their drinks, Mike closed his eyes, tired, and Betsy’s gaze drifted around the place then drifted back and met Mike’s again. They played tag like this without speaking and like a ritual it carved out a private space for them to breathe in.

It was three quarters of Betsy’s beer before the bubble broke and they weren’t sure whether it was a blessing having lasted so long or a curse that it didn’t last forever.

Theodore Duende was smacking Mike on the back just a bit too hard, a huge smile on his face, insistently friendly. He was flanked by a disinterested-looking Allison Abbott, Kichiro Guerra hanging off her wrist. Ted was saying something to Mike they couldn’t make out. Kichiro pulled herself in to say something close to Allison’s ear, then glided her way over towards Betsy.

“Heyyyyy, you’re Betsy, right? Trombone?”

“What they call me.”

“Oh my goooooood that means we’re both Alts, right? Fuckin crazy shit.”

Kichiro was all black and pink and dressed like someone with style trying to pretend for a night they didn’t have any. Betsy shrugged and that was apparently all the conversation needed to continue.

“Apparently the other Kichiro was like soooo sweet and shit. Which is like, I dunno soooooo wild to me?”

“Uh. I’m in the same boat, I guess.”

Kichiro lit up. “Omigod you ARE aren’t you?? Two peas in a pod, by the way I loooove your whole. Look. Just like, fuck what anyone else thinks, yeah? Love it, love the energy.”

Betsy felt themself bristle the way they always did when they started to know someone was just fucking with them.

“And like,” said Kichiro, taking her opening and running with it, “everyone’s always like oooooooh my god Kichiro the old you never woulda said something like that and I’m like hey lay off okay I’m my own bitch? Right? Everyone’s soooo annoying about it.”

“Yeah. Everybody.” They tried not to look at Mike and failed.

“So, anyway…” said Kichiro, leaning in conspiratorially, “what’s the deal with you and Mikey, huh? He like, _never_ sees anyone after shows. And now you’re here? And you’re like-”

“Like what?” Betsy let their eyes narrow.

“Oh, _you know…”_

Betsy clenched their jaw and was seriously considering opening it and letting it throw out whatever rude shit they could think of, but before they could Ted and Allison laughed loud at a joke that Mike only smiled at. Ted clapped him on the back hard again just as Mike went to take a sip and he fumbled the bottle onto the table. Beer flowed freely. Ted and Allison screamed an “Oooooh!” and Kichiro laughed and started clapping and then Ted started in with _“has to bend down and pick it up”_ and Allison joined him for _“like nobody just saw him drop it!”_ and Kichiro cheered and when Betsy saw Mike start to laugh too, pretending he was in on the joke, they whipped out their knife and stabbed it as hard as they could into the yeilding wood of the table. Mike’s bottle and their own skittered off and dropped onto the floor. Their knife stood straight up in place. The sound of glass breaking. Kichiro jumped back with a muttered _jesus._

Silence for a few moments. Betsy did their best to level the three of them with their stare. It worked, slightly, and it took the trio a handful of split seconds to recompose.

“What’s their problem, Mike?” said Ted. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“Mike always was good at making friends with crazy bitches,” said Allison, rolling her eyes. She made a head gesture and the three of them moved on, leaving Mike and Betsy alone again at a table surrounded by broken glass and bearing an odd decoration.

“Are you uh,” started Mike. “Did much get on you? The beer, I mean.”

“Oh. Nah. Well, yeah, but. This outfit’s seen worse.”

“Cool. Good. Uh, maybe.”

“They shouldn’t fucking talk to you like that,” it slipped out, “I’ll fucking stab them all, they can’t-”

“Haha,” interrupted Mike, “no, it’s fine! Just an inside joke.”

“Mike it’s not a fucking inside joke if it’s a song on their literal album that every motherfuck in the league has heard!”

“No, seriously! I mean, the me dropping the ball bit really did happen. And like when they say the flames bit it’s uh, well that was just kind of a thing they’d used to say when they’d rib on me, not like they’d _actually_ set me on fire or anything-”

“Uh _huh.”_

“Oh hey come on Bets don’t look at me like that, it’s not like it bothers me.”

“Mike you literally looked like you were going to fucking keel over dude.”

“W- well. It’s fine. As long as they get it out of their system then.”

“Then what?? Fucking, tell them to cut it out.”

“Haha I mean you’ve seen my numbers it’s not like-”

“Ugh fine, if you’re not gonna fucking do it then I’ll-” and Betsy’s arm moved for the blade sticking out of the table.

“Betsy. Betsy fucking. Stop it okay!!”

“Hey what the fuck!!” He’d reached across the table and pinned their arm before they could get there. “Mike!! Let my fucking arm go!!”

“J- Just. Just listen okay. Look maybe you don’t know what it’s like to be a reprehensibly shitty player who everyone fucking hates but I do. If I wasn’t around we would’ve made playoffs this season, hell probably like two or three times by now, like Jay-” Mike caught himself and shook his head sharply. “Whatever. But anyway we haven’t. So the least I can do is let them have some fun with it. It doesn’t even it out but at least it’s something that I can. Can actually do.”

“Mike.” They withdrew their arm, beer dripping off the sleeve of their jacket. Their gaze dropped into their lap. “Fuck you. Fuck you a million fucking times for saying I don’t know what it’s like for everyone to fucking hate me, my team threw me across an entire fucking dimension to get rid of my ass!! But at least when I was there I didn’t just fucking sit around and take it I fucking bought a knife and came up swinging!!”

“Yeah? And did that stop it?”

“... No.”

“What I thought.”

Betsy didn’t have anything to say to that and Mike sighed. They leaned back in their chair and maybe they sighed too. The sounds of the club went on around and without them.

“Mike Townsend, what the fuck are we gonna do with us.”

“I dunno about you. I’m just waiting around for my redemption arc.” A wry smile. “You wanna, get out of here?”

“Together?”

“Yeah.”

Betsy shrugged. “Works for me.”

They stepped gingerly around the debris they were leaving for someone else to clean up and slipped out into a night that had gotten cold while they weren’t looking. Mike shivered.

“You uh. Want the jacket?”

“Betsy no offense but I’m pretty sure if I tried to wear your jacket I’d look so ridiculous not even you could blame them for making fun of me.”

And Betsy laughed at that and figured the least they could do was get Mike out of the wind and so they slipped back around the side of the building. Mike followed in behind and they flicked out their lighter against the shadow. He leaned back against the wall and looked exhausted. Betsy leaned back against him, hoping it would do at least something to block out the cold, nervous until Mike let his arm lay on their shoulder.

Silence for a bit. Then, Mike:

“Sorry about, uh. Saying you didn’t know what it’s like. To have everyone. You know.”

“Nah it’s cool. Guess you didn’t know.”

“I always figured you, like, said fuck that noise and headed out. Seems like something you’d do.”

Betsy laughed harshly. “Wish I could say that. Nah, the fucked up part is that I kept holding out hope that like, I dunno. Maybe someday those fucks would like me. Pretty fucking lame of me, right? All they ever did was kick the shit out of me, but every time I would think well, okay, that time for sure they got it out of their system. Or maybe if I acted tough or deranged enough that would do the trick. But, uh. Yeah. Didn’t. Then they literally fuckin picked my ass up and tossed me through a goddamn magic portal.”

“Haha. Harsh.”

“You’re telling me. But like, at least it’s been better since then.”

“Your team avoids you. Step up, I guess.”

“Not what I meant, dumbass. I-” Their exhale threatened to extinguish the lighter and Betsy found some kind of courage under threat of darkness. “I met you…”

And, well. Once that was said, there was really no going back.

They felt Mike’s hand press more firmly against their shoulder and they let it turn them, gazing up at his face in a question that was answered when he leaned forward and they leaned back and his mouth reached theirs and it tasted like an undiscovered song people would only be singing twenty years later. Betsy leaned back hard into the arm wrapped around their shoulder blades and it held steady, and they felt the inarguable urge to wrap Mike Townsend up, contain him fully within themself, and so they flicked closed the lighter and embraced him tightly, forcing their bodies strongly, magnetically together. Interlinked and hidden from view, closer than ever before to something they didn’t know they needed, Betsy felt the residual heat from their lighter and hoped that warmth, plus that of their bodies combined, would be enough to protect Mike from the cold.

* * *

Another season, another opener, another faceoff between Betsy and Mike. That synchronicity was yet to break. This time, the Garages played at the Pies’ stadium.

***

“Okay, I’m like _literally_ not supposed to be letting you do this, so you better not fucking tell anyone.”

“Oh my god… I didn’t know so many types of pie filling even existed.”

“Mike, you listening? I’m telling you-”

“No, no yeah, you’re doing me a favor sneaking me in here, I get it.”

“Supposed to be team members only. Secret kitchen.”

“Betsy this one is like twenty feet long.”

“Oh, our cutter? Yeah. It’s ultrasonic. I never really use it much myself but- Mike? Are you crying?”

“I- It’s just… I never knew anything could be so beautiful…”

***

By the time they were done Mike Townsend had produced two dozen pristine galettes. Betsy pitched for their first win against Mike, and cracked a smile from the mound.

* * *

The season passed in a blur for Betsy, a haze of glee that held them separate in a way that felt new and exciting instead of self-imposed. They spent most of their days on their phone in idle chatter. They revealed their love of ska to Mike and he wasn’t too rude about it. Rude enough to embarrass Betsy into a new round of sniping at him but, well, maybe that was what he’d wanted.

***

They faced off again a few weeks later, another Betsy-led win for the Pies. Mike’s pitching was noticeably worse, not as bad as it had _ever_ been, if what Betsy had heard was true, but a step down nonetheless. Betsy went to bitch him out after the game but found that someone had beat them to it, turning the corner just as Ted Duende was ending a conversation with Mike by ruffling his hair. Betsy rolled their eyes, sliding in only after Mike was alone, sighing and looking conflicted.

“Fuck was that about,” was their opener.

“Augh! Jesus, Betsy. Scared me half to death.”

“Don’t care. Same question.”

“Huh? Oh. Haha. Just team business.”

“Right. Anyway, wanna get out of here? Get a fuckin. Cheesesteak or somethin?”

“Uh. Sure. Sounds good.”

Betsy started to walk away and Mike stayed behind.

“Mike.”

He was staring at nothing. Betsy could see something churning in his head but wasn’t sure what in the world he’d be processing.

“Mike!”

“Wha- Oh.”

“Seriously, what’s up with you, dude?”

“Nothing. Tired. Long game.”

And Betsy knew bullshit when they heard it but. Well, they’d never been good at dealing with other people’s problems.

“Keep dragging your feet and I’ll stab you, see if that puts some pep in your fuckin step,” they laughed.

“Haha, you’d stab _me?_ After everything I’ve done for you?” And he was smiling again and it made Betsy think it was okay to smile too.

“All you’ve done for me _lately_ is hold me up from getting dinner, I’m fucking hungry dude.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

Betsy knew they couldn’t fix whatever Mike was dealing with, but if they could offer a distraction then they would. It looked like the guy needed a break anyway.

* * *

The Garages made the playoffs, clinching the 4th seed near the very end of the season. The Pies had returned to form, clinching the 1st seed a safe distance from the rampaging Crabs. Which meant that, fresh off the back of the Garages at Pies series in games 97-99, Philadelphia would host another such series. Mike’s first time pitching in the playoffs.

Which went a long way towards explaining why Mike was currently on the floor of Betsy’s room having a minor fucking meltdown. _Why did it have to be the floor…?_ thought Betsy, remembering how they’d frantically kicked the mess of discarded clothes, binders, soda bottles, and various other junk that usually littered the floor of their room into a huge pile under their bed a few minutes before Mike had gotten there. Luckily, Mike didn’t seem too interested in peeking under their bed.

“I’m gonna blow it. I’m gonna blow the whole thing.”

“Mike, you already made it to the playoffs. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not what _I_ wanted,” corrected Mike. “And it’s not like I was any help. I mean, look at me. Couldn’t even beat you once all season.”

“Wow. Jeez. Way to make me feel great.”

“Oh. Uh. Sorry.”

“I’m fuckin kidding dude, I know what you meant.”

“I just wish…” He sighed. “I dunno.”

“No, what?”

“I just wish there was something I could do. Something to feel like. Like I helped, or was important. Something like that. Know what I mean?”

“Can’t say I really do. Whenever I do stuff people usually just tell me _come on Betsy don’t ruin everything_ or _not again Betsy can’t you just cut it out_ or like _oh shit stop stabbing me with your super sickass knife_ and shit like that.”

Not even a chuckle from him. “I dunno. Maybe that’s what I should be more like. Just sorta. Do it.”

“Hell yeah, dude. Fuck shit up. No prisoners shit. It’s fuckin rad as hell, who cares what any motherfucker says.”

“I wish I was more like you. Like, kind of a lot. Is that bad?”

“Fuck no bitch, I’m literally the most awesome mf to ever live. I’d be surprised if anyone _didn’t_ wanna be like me.”

And that one got Mike and he smiled, and they settled into their same familiar riff where Mike would tell Betsy they weren’t shit and Betsy would pretend to get indignant and then if they were both having enough fun maybe the knife would come out for a laugh.

***

The Garages swept the Pies in three games. And of course Betsy didn’t _throw_ the game, that would’ve been disrespectful and Betsy had _never_ been that before. But not even they could hide the tiny genuine grin that crept into their face whenever they’d give up a run.

* * *

The Crabs, as everyone expected, were a force of nature. On the field they were a defensive nightmare faster than anything anyone had ever seen. In the stands? The most notoriously boisterous fans in the league, not to mention the most numerous. Betsy watched from the crowd, feeling more dwarfed than usual as Mike Townsend stepped onto the mound.

In the bottom of the seventh he gave up a two-run homer to Holden Standon. The crowd erupted in an old familiar song, a name and a parenthetical. Betsy was glad they were far enough away not to be forced to see Mike’s face.

***

Two games later the Crabs had completed their sweep of the league, the Garages’ playoff hopes dashed at the last steps. Betsy looked around for Mike in the players’ area after the game. He passed by for just an instant. Betsy could’ve sworn they locked eyes for a moment before he looked away, blending back into the clump of Garages uniforms heading onto the bus for the last time that season.

* * *

It finished just in time. They’d texted Mike a good while ago, back when they’d _thought_ they’d be done in just a couple of minutes, but one thing had led to another and it turned out they didn’t even mind that Mike didn’t respond with an ‘omw’ until thirty whole minutes later, really they didn’t mind at all, it gave them plenty of time to wrap everything up, so they definitely didn’t mi-

“Oh uh, hey Betsy.”

“Mike!” Betsy turned their back to the table, trying to hide what was behind. “I, uh, well, glad you could make it…”

“Yeah, uh. Good to see you get some use out of the kitchen, not many people around here use it.”

“Well, thanks for offering. While I’m. You know, in Seattle.”

“No, uh, no problem. What are you doing here, again?”

“Well, I just. I mean I was in the area and I. Haven’t seen you the whole offseason, and we haven’t talked much, so.”

“Oh yeah, right, haha. Sorry.”

Betsy squirmed. Mike was looking off in some arbitrary direction.

“So, uh, anyway, do you have any time? I found a pretty good sourdough recipe, and I brought my starter, so I thought we could-”

“Huh? Um. Sorry, didn’t hear you.”

“Oh, I just. If you wanted to bake-”

“Haha. No time, sorry, gotta. Um. Something I gotta do today. Didn’t I, tell you? When we texted.”

“Oh no yeah you did it’s just, you said if I stopped by maybe you could… Well. Uh. Nevermind. Anyway it’s good to see you?”

“Yeah. Uh. You too. Listen I have to. Get going so.”

“No, yeah, of course.”

“Glad you could use the kitchen, anyway.”

“Thanks. Yeah.”

Mike slipped out of the door with a wave, leaving Betsy with one or two more stuttered words stranded on their tongue. They reached their hand back to feel the gift they’d spent the whole day baking. They closed their eyes and sighed.

LOTTERY PICK BLESSED THE SEATTLE GARAGES

It wasn’t like they _intended_ to follow Mike down the halls of Big Garage, it was just, well, that was the direction they needed to go to get out. Probably. And if they were heading the same direction anyway then what harm was there in making sure he got where he was going safely? He’d seemed in a rush to get to whatever obligation - _and it had better be a fucking good one to blow off our bake date,_ thought Betsy, especially since they’d allowed themself an actual genuine moment for once. They clutched the glass plate wrapped tight with plastic wrap. How could he blow them off like that? Although, maybe that was unfair. After all, if Mike had something he had to do then that was the end of it… they couldn’t really expect him to remember that it was kind of a big date for Betsy, I mean who else but them cared that it’d been two years since they’d gotten here. And plus they _had_ been pretty pushy with the scheduling, so they didn’t really have a right to complain that he’d-

Betsy reasoned to themself that being lost in thought was a pretty good reason to have idly followed Mike around several twists and turns that could never have reasonably led them out. And since Mike had just gone in a door, and since the door hadn’t _fully_ closed, and since they were already here and since Mike had so rudely blown them off... 

Betsy peeked around the corner. Lit by candlelights. Filled with the whispers of unfamiliar voices. Open books scattered around plastic rehearsal chairs. They didn’t know what the Garages got up to in the offseason usually but they assumed it wasn’t usually so… ominous.

“Well,” they heard Mike’s voice say. “Don’t keep me waiting. Let’s get her back.”

FIRE AND SMOKE

The smell of burning wafted through around the door and Betsy strained to make out the voices. Through the thin crack they could see a few figures moving around, holding books and ferrying objects. Some in garages uniforms. One in robes. One in large glasses. Quite the assortment, they thought. They tried to put names to the faces but even in their universe they didn’t know many people, and the endeavor proved doubly pointless here.

A flash of light. Betsy shielded their eyes but the flash was gone as soon as it came, replaced by a shade, flickering but omnipresent, no light enough to puncture it. The fluorescents above them in the Big Garage drew unbearably dim. They snuck closer to the door.

Shouts from inside. Scattered chants and curses. The door slammed shut. Betsy rushed out from hiding and tried to open it but even though the knob turned and the latch bolt opened the door stayed firmly sealed. They went to the thin vertical window and stood on the ends of their feet to see through. The scene inside was visible only through occasional flashes.

A snake. A tendril. A hand. Reaching up from the floor. Mike in the center of some arrangement of symbols and semiotics. Betsy robbed of voice. It grabbed him. No one stopped it. There’s no one to stop it and Betsy didn’t see where they went. It grabbed Mike. Another grabbed Mike. The hands are born of the shade and they smothered him in it and Betsy could see less and less of him more and more sparingly and then

AN EGG

he was gone. And in his place was an oblong negative only vaguely in his dimensions. Betsy breathed once. And then again.

And then the sounds of tearing began.

Gnawing.

Something being taken apart.

Something being put back together.

The shape became smaller. Denser. Smaller than Mike now. The sounds of gnashing now. Betsy heard a scream and wasn’t sure if it was their own or if it came from somewhere inside. Denser and smaller and louder and Betsy was throwing themself at the door and they couldn’t bring anything to happen and the event horizon noise started as a low drone that grew and grew until Betsy couldn’t keep prying any more they needed to cover their ears they bent down and braced for an impact that sent them sliding across the concrete ground, hitting the other wall hard and slumping to the bottom. Their head spun. A light shone from inside. Blue flame.

HATCHING

The door opened and behind it was a swirling void and Betsy felt an instinctual irrational desire to throw themself into it as a figure emerged, stepping tenderly and walking against gravity’s tide. As if its body was new and strange. Its skin only haphazardly covered what was underneath and the parts uncovered were tinged deep gray with ash and burn. They throbbed out of time with each other. The skin sat unevenly on its scaffolding as if whoever’d put it on had ran out of patience and used force instead of precision, sticking flaps and folds of skin on at all imaginable angles, held on with some necrotic epoxy. It did something between a wheeze and a laugh. Its eyes rolled loosely in its head. Hair matted and half singed and worse still were the parts of the scalp it didn’t cover.

JAYLEN HOTDOGFINGERS RETURNS

Well. What was left of her, anyway.

With every step it shuddered and refused to fall apart. Betsy cowered in the wall opposite the place where this avenging rotting demiurge was moving forward as it descended. The light in the air itself turned reflective at its movement. It turned its attention down at them and for an instant Betsy saw both the sword in its back and the sword pointed at their throat and then they blinked and both were gone.

The folds of what skin remained around its eyes tensed and Betsy saw the muscles underneath register confusion.

“Betsy. Betsy… Trombone, right?” The words came out like grating metal. “But… no, too small. And weren’t you made of brass...”

Betsy’s hand tremorously traced the outline of their switchblade but somehow they couldn’t bring themself to draw. Jaylen let her head drop limply to the side, tuning into radio frequencies beyond mortal ken.

“I see. A different one. Looks like I’ve missed a lot.” Jaylen turned her eyes down at them and Betsy wondered just how hot a fire had to burn where you could see its traces still lingering as alive as ever in its victim’s eyes.

“Can you tell me… what they’ve done to me?”

Betsy’s mouth was dry and their first attempt at words was sandpaper on their tongue. “I think they- brought you back…” they mumbled. Jaylen gave no sign of having heard. She was looking at them but her attention was elsewhere, directed somewhere up past where blue skies ended.

“I owe… something. To someone…” said Jaylen, all intonation gone from her whisper. And now she turned attention finally, fully to Betsy. “Would you like… to help me repay it?”

Betsy wished they had more room to back up. “Uh…”

“It would be easy. All I’d need is a ball.” Eagerness crept into her voice, almost earnest. “Do you have one? I’m... a pitcher after all. Right. I’m a pitcher. So I need a ball. I need a ball to-”

And suddenly all the Garages were there at once. They surrounded her. Maybe one grabbed her, Betsy can’t be sure, they’re running away, thankful that no one’s attention strays from the events they’re fast leaving behind them, tracing the labyrinthine concrete corridors in a scattershot path that leads away first and out second. The remaining Garages don’t notice the apple pie left sitting just outside the site of their necromancy and that night it’s collected and trashed by the custodial services. 

It isn’t until the next day that Betsy learns Mike has gone somewhere he won’t be coming back from. And it isn’t until months later that they’re able to convince themself they couldn’t have done anything to stop it.

MIKE TOWNSEND RETREATS TO SHADOWS

  


**_to be continued_ **  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Would be absolutely remiss not to mention the huge debt this part of the work owes to [Theme that goes like "na na na na na na"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26525086) which made me so enamored with Betsy in the first place. With the benefit of more hindsight I'm hoping that this serves as an addition and not a replacement to the great work that's already been done there.
> 
> Anyway, I wasn't expecting this to turn out so long, so I split it up into what'll hopefully be two parts. More soon!


End file.
